Posted originally on the Archive_of_Our_Own at https://archiveofourown.org/
works/3311519.
  Rating:
      Explicit
  Archive Warning:
      Underage
  Category:
      M/M
  Fandom:
      The_Maze_Runner_Series_-_James_Dashner, The_Maze_Runner_(2014), The_Maze
      Runner_Series_-_All_Media_Types
  Relationship:
      Minho/Newt_(Maze_Runner)
  Character:
      Newt_(Maze_Runner), Minho_(Maze_Runner), Thomas_(Maze_Runner), Alby_(Maze
      Runner), Gally_(Maze_Runner), Teresa_Agnes
  Additional Tags:
      Explicit_Sexual_Content, The_Maze_Runner_Spoilers, Protectiveness,
      Mentions_of_Suicide, Spoilers_for_The_Death_Cure, Fluff, Angst, Eventual
      Smut, Thomas_Has_a_Slight_Crush_on_Newt
  Stats:
      Published: 2015-02-08 Completed: 2015-07-22 Chapters: 4/4 Words: 12363
****** I Will Follow ******
by Smontheye
Summary
     For a second, Newt was drowning in concrete; then, he was in the
     Maze, surrounded by openness and darkness. He whipped his head around
     to watch the Door close with a final, resounding crack, morphing
     almost seamlessly into wall. There would be no way out until the
     morning.
     (In which Newt runs into the Maze behind Thomas.)
Notes
     This is basically what I think would happen if Newt ran after Thomas
     into the Maze, with established minewt. The explicit rating (smut)
     comes in the final chapter, so stay tuned (or tune out, if that’s not
     your jam).
     As always, I love feedback, so let me know what you think!
     UPDATE 9/12/15: This fic has been revised, polished, and some parts
     rewritten. Thanks for reading, everyone!
***** Chapter 1 *****
Newt’s muscles burned, but he didn’t stop running. His bad leg, that damned one
he once broke, felt lit on fire right down to the bone. But the pain in his
body and lungs was marginal compared to the sickly black ache in his heart. The
Runners were coming back, trickling in from all directions, but there was no
sign of Alby and Minho. Newt ran from Door to Door, pausing at each one and
barking out the same desperate question at the arriving Runners.
“Have you seen Minho and Alby?”
The boys simply shook their heads, their faces passing from puzzled to worried
rapidly as they took in Newt's face, which had probably turned a lifeless, pale
color. His eyes prickled with the promise of tears, but Newt refused to let
them surface. Alby never cried in front of the Gladers.
Newt mustered up the strength of voice to send the Runners to dinner, refusing
to wonder whether they obeyed him out of true deference to his authority or
just out of pity for how stricken he looked. He didn’t eat dinner because he
couldn’t. The thought of his best friends lying, bodies broken, somewhere in
the Maze flushed any appetite away from his gut.
His heart pounded to the beat of the dreaded words.
Minho and Alby will die tonight.
Minho and Alby were stuck in Maze, and Newt will be left alone. His mind was
already racing toward the ivy-covered walls, wondering how far up he should to
climb this time, how soon he could follow them. Certainly, he’d have to wait
for all the others to fall asleep, when no one could find or stop him.
Yet, deep inside, he knew he couldn’t jump again. Without Alby or Minho around,
the Gladers needed Newt. They needed an experienced leader.
Newt squinted desperately into the darkness of the Maze through the West Door.
He stood on the same spot of deadened yellow grass that Minho had stepped on
that morning as he pressed a kiss to Newt's forehead before leading an
impatient Alby into the Maze. “Two hours,” Minho had promised. “We’ll be back
before that Greenie can ask ya another stupid question.”
The Doors were to close in less than thirty minutes.
He sensed Thomas’ presence before he saw him. The Greenie looked almost as
worried as Newt, his dark eyebrows pinched together and forehead creased
deeply. Thomas’ frown looked unnatural on his youthful face, but it wasn’t
devoid of hope. Behind the Newbie, trailing after him like a puppy, Newt
spotted the mess of curly hair that was Chuck.
Thomas spoke to him, and Newt answered, forgetting his response shortly after
it left his mouth. Newt knew he would later regret shouting at Thomas, but his
mind couldn’t get past the certainty that the Newbie had it coming, thinking
getting Minho and Alby back was as simple as going to look for them.
Newt checked his watch again, and, feeling like coroner pronouncing death,
said, “The Doors close in two minutes.”
Suddenly, he couldn’t bear standing near as the Doors closed. He didn’t want to
watch the coffins of Alby and Minho slam shut. Newt turned away, almost bumping
into Thomas as he fled. He felt like a coward when Thomas stayed at the Door,
peering in motionlessly.
Newt promised himself that he wouldn't start crying until he locked himself in
the Homestead.
He was halfway to the building, debating whether his limp would allow him to
run the rest of the way to avoid hearing Doors close, when he heard Thomas
shout his name.
“Newt! They’re coming! I can see ’em!”
Newt whipped his head back to see Thomas at the Door’s threshold. The boy’s
stance was tensed, and Thomas glanced between Newt and the dark of the Maze.
Newt had run back to less than thirty feet away from the Door when Thomas
seemed to make a decision. He took a hesitant step across the threshold.
“Don’t do it, Tommy!” Newt gasped out, lungs protesting. “Don’t you bloody do
it!”
But Thomas's next step brought him into a run, and Newt watched in horrified
dismay as the darkness swallowed the boy.
The Doors then began to groan, and the tall opening narrowed, like the wall was
closing its huge, monstrous jaws and eating his friends up.
It felt like something else was controlling his legs as Newt approached the
Door, his limp a distant ache. Without hesitation, Newt bolted through the
opening. The Doors rapidly closed in around him, seeming to accelerate as they
got closer together. Newt had to turn sideways to make the last stretch, barely
avoiding being crushed.
For a second, Newt was drowning in concrete; then, he was in the Maze,
surrounded by openness and darkness. He whipped his head around to watch the
Door close with a final, resounding crack, morphing almost seamlessly into
wall. There would be no way out until the morning.
Then, someone grabbed him, and whatever breath remaining in Newt’s lungs was
knocked out as he was turned around and pinned, his back against the wall.
“You slinthead!” Minho shouted. Through the dim light, Newt saw Minho’s face
appear inches from his, covered with a mix of sweat, dirt, and blood. The other
boy gave Newt a hard shake, large hands gripped tightly on Newt’s upper arms.
“I told you to shucking forget about me if this ever happened!”
“Minho, I—” Newt immediately stopped struggling when he realized his assailant
was Minho, not a Griever. The wash of relief was temporary, however, as Newt
took in the horror, anger, and disbelief painting Minho’s tired expression. His
hand went up instinctively to touch the other boy’s face, as if he could smooth
over the lines of pain straining it.
“Stop,” Minho’s voice was hoarse with agony as he swatted away Newt’s hand. The
violent motion caused Newt to flinch. “You’re an idiot, Newt. Why the hell did
you do that?” Minho punctuated the question with another rough shake.
“Let him go! He—we just wanted to help.” It was Thomas’s alarmed voice. More
than anything, he sounded surprised. Newt reflected that though Newt and Minho
didn’t try to hide their relationship, Thomas was new to the Glade, and they
hardly broadcasted it.
The Greenie grabbed Minho’s shoulder and, with surprising strength, pried him
away from Newt. Minho rounded on Thomas. He looked angry, but also guilty as he
saw Newt rub the bands of reddish flesh Minho’s hands left on his arms.
“Slim it, Greenie.” Minho snapped at Thomas. For a second, Newt was afraid
Minho would hit Thomas. Newt stepped forward, ready to intervene.
Instead, Minho collapsed against the wall next to Newt, emanating exhaustion.
Minho dug his knuckles into his eyes and let out a pained groan. “At least I
get to die protecting you, Newt, like I’ve always dreamed.”
The three lapsed into a tense silence that Newt used to give Minho a concerned
once-over.
He noticed how exhausted the Keeper of the Runners was. It was a miracle Minho
could still walk, having been out in the Maze all day. The grime and scratches
covering the boy’s skin emphasized the tired lines of his body. Of course, as a
rule that Newt would never fail to appreciate, Minho looked stunningly
handsome. Even slumped wearily against the wall, Minho’s broad shoulders and
long frame made Newt feel warm inside.
One of Minho’s sleeves was shredded, exposing a long, muscular arm with the
light ridges of veins visible even in the dim light, running like thick wires
under his skin. A long time ago, before there were Keepers and Runners and
Builders and organization, Alby had compared Minho to a machine. Sitting beside
Alby by the crackling fire as they watched Minho run lap after lap around the
perimeter of the Glade, building up that incredible stamina, Newt had agreed.
Now, watching the Runner’s defeated, exhausted slump and unconsciously rubbing
the spot he had grabbed him, Newt determined for the thousandth time that Minho
was the opposite of a machine. Perhaps parts of him, his single-minded
determination and his bottomless stores of energy, were machine-like, but that
was where the similarity ended.
Minho wasn’t unfeeling. Rather, he felt too much. Beautiful Minho, who looks at
him like Newt’s the light of day and the sun is an imposter. Who touches Newt
like he’s more precious than diamonds and more fragile than glass. Who Newt
once found alone in the Map Room nursing a bloody fist and trying to conceal a
visible new dent in the metal wall.
“We can’t just stay here like sitting ducks.” Thomas’s words interrupted Newt’s
thoughts. The younger boy sounded confused and wary. “What’s the plan? Minho,
what happened to Alby?” Newt reflected that Thomas hadn’t been in the Glade
long enough to know to be scared.
“Right.” Newt straightened up, trying to summon authority into his shaky voice
and probably failing for not the first time that day. A piece of klunk for a
leader he was, just standing there and staring at Minho like a love-struck
twelve-year-old. “We start movin’. And don’t bloody stop.”
“What about Alby?” Thomas repeated. “We can’t leave him to die.”
Newt felt the warmth escape his skin. On unsteady legs, he approached Alby, who
lay on his back a few feet away where Minho had left him. Thomas was already
crouched over the Leader, head to Alby’s chest. 
“Why’s he unconscious?” Newt asked, checking Alby’s breathing and pulse for
himself when Thomas moved away. Both were shallow. For a moment, Newt wished he
were the unconscious one. Alby would be ten times more useful than Newt. Newt
could already feel clouds of panic rising in mind. The numbing mist of
adrenaline from bolting after Thomas was fading rapidly.
“I did what I had to.” Minho grunted as he pushed up from where he sat, relying
heavily on the vine-covered wall for the upward motion. He approached Newt and
spread a palm on Newt’s back. It was ridiculous how much the simple touch
steadied and calmed him. “Newbie, help me get this heavy shank to the Door.
Give ’em one body that’s easy to find in the morning.”
“My name’s Thomas.” Thomas said indignantly. Then, something passed over his
face, and Thomas whipped around. Thomas’ face was stone calm, but Newt glimpsed
a panicked glint in the boy’s dark brown eyes. “How can this be happening!”
Thomas’ gaze darted around, and Newt could almost see the gears turning rapidly
in the younger boy’s head.
“If you’re thinking ’bout being some kind of hero, Newbie, I’ll be the first to
tell you that you’ve got klunk for brains.” Minho said unsympathetically. “He’s
already dead, shuckface. We all are.”
But Thomas wasn’t listening. He suddenly ran to the far wall, where the vines
grew especially thick. Thomas grabbed onto one of them and pulled, exerting all
his weight. The ivy didn’t budge.
Minho looked at Thomas as if he were crazy. “Never mind about Alby.” Newt’s
body was jerked to the side as Minho pulled him by the hand. “We’re leaving,
Greenie. Stay away from dead ends and don’t get crushed by moving walls.”
“No!” Thomas’s voice echoed hauntingly off the walls, and he lowered his
volume. “You need to help me first. If we tie Alby up on the wall, the Grievers
might not reach him.”
Minho made to move deeper into the Maze, but Newt dug his heels in. “Tommy’s
right,” Newt decided. He wasn’t going to be a coward. For Alby. “I won’t bloody
leave Alby like this.”
Minho’s eyes, colored an intense black in the dim night, pinned Newt’s gaze.
“Not you,” he groaned. But something in Newt’s face must have changed Minho’s
mind, because he let go of Newt’s wrist, went to Alby, and grabbed his legs.
Newt followed suit, taking Alby’s arms. They moved to where Thomas stood,
Alby’s body swinging like a hammock between them. “I can’t shuckin’ believe the
Grievers haven’t come and devoured us all yet.”
While Thomas scaled the ivy wall like a squirrel, Minho and Newt fastened a
makeshift harness on Alby. Soon, Alby was being raised up the wall pulley-style
and tied off securely. Newt couldn’t help but admire Thomas’ calm efficiency as
they worked together to lift Alby to safety. No trainee had ever been so level-
headed his first time in the Maze, and here Thomas was, facing certain death
stuck in it.
Gally was right; Thomas was different from the other Gladers. But Newt refused
to believe he had come to hurt them—at least not intentionally. And that was
all that mattered to him.
Newt forcibly pushed back the rising tide of hope in his chest at the thought
that, maybe, with Thomas, they could survive the night.
When Thomas had clambered back down from the wall, Minho was pacing between the
walls like a trapped lion and combing his hand through his slicked-up hair.
“What’s the plan?” Thomas asked Newt, eyeing Minho warily. Newt jolted, having
not expected the question.
“Well,” Newt rasped, throat dry. “The best strategy’s splittin’ up but staying
close, so the Grievers—so we won’t all be trapped at once.” Newt swallowed at
the thought of those whirring, angry creatures. “Act as backup for each other.
Distractin’ them and such, if they can be distracted. We need to avoid dead
ends, watch for moving walls…” Newt was babbling now, and before he could say
more, Minho interrupted.
“No time for explanations. Newt, you’ve got that shuck limp, so you’re coming
with me.” Minho came to a stop in front of the other two boys. Reaching up and
then behind himself, he pulled out one of the long, gray knives that every
Runner kept doubling for self-defense and cutting pieces of ivy “breadcrumbs.”
As Keeper, Minho always carried two. He passed one of them to the Greenie.
“Thomas,” Minho pointed down a corridor. “Make three left turns, two right, and
then run straight ’til you get to a three-way intersection. We’ll meet ya
there. Holler if a Griever starts chasin’ you.”
“Why don’t we just climb up the wall where Alby is?” Thomas protested.
“Because if it turns out they can climb walls,” Minho replied, sounding like he
was doubting Thomas’s intelligence, “you’ll be shucked. Any more stupid
questions?”
“I’ve bloody got one.” Newt replied. “Tommy shouldn’t go alone.” It was true
and practical. Newt was once one of the most senior Runners, and no matter how
hard he tried to forget, the scheme of the Maze was etched into his mind like a
tattoo. Thomas had never been in the Maze before. “I’ll go that way, and you
and Tommy can stay together.”
“That’s not a question.” Minho replied sternly. “And get that slinthead idea
outta your mind, ’cause I’m not letting you alone in the Maze.” The word
“again” sounded in both of their minds just as loudly as if it had been said.
“We’ve got no buggin’ time for this.” Newt echoed Minho’s earlier words. He
knew where this conversation was going, where it had gone so many times already
without resolution. Thomas was glancing between them again, wearing another
confused, worried expression. “I’ll go with Tommy then.” Truthfully, Newt
didn’t want to leave Minho as much as he knew Minho didn’t want to leave Newt.
But a good leader would never have let Thomas wander the Maze by himself, and
it was Newt’s fault for not stopping Thomas from running into this hell in the
first place.
Minho opened his mouth to protest, but closed it before a sound came out,
looking like a fish out of water. Finally, expression guarded, he conceded.
“Alright. Get moving, shanks.”
Minho used a hand on the small of Newt’s back to give him a push towards the
corridor of the Maze he earlier instructed Thomas to take. Newt didn’t hear
Minho move until they made the first turn out of sight.
Newt and Thomas ran in silence. Well, technically, Thomas jogged carefully
behind him while Newt moved as fast as he could without putting too much strain
on his bad leg. Newt realized with amusement it was the longest time Thomas had
gone so far in Newt’s presence without asking any questions. But then—
“Why does he act like he owns you?” Thomas asked in his signature thoughtful,
matter-of-fact way that made it impossible to get angry at him. The younger
boy’s voice was even, as if the jogging barely dented his energy. The way
Thomas carried himself with careless confidence reminded Newt distinctly of
Minho.
“That shank acts like he owns bloody everything,” Newt replied. Unlike the
Greenie, he was panting.
Coming from behind him, Thomas’s voice sounded like it contained a frown. “You
guys are…together, right? You should be equals.” Newt almost tripped in
surprise. He knew Thomas was perceptive, but it was unexpected how quickly he
connected the dots. Chuck still thought he and Minho were just extra close
friends.
“He’s the Keeper of the Runners.” Newt replied, not knowing why he wasn’t just
telling Thomas to shut his hole. “That means he’s an expert on the Maze.”
“But he doesn’t need to act like that!” Thomas said with an unusual burst of
passion that caused Newt to stop abruptly. His leg protested the sudden
deceleration, and Newt twisted around in an effort to lessen the sudden burst
of pain. Unable to stop in time, Thomas crashed into Newt, and they both went
down.
All the air was knocked out of Newt’s lungs as his back hit the ground. It
didn’t help that Thomas landed on him, chest to his chest. Newt gasped for air
as Thomas scrambled off of him.
“I’m sorry—”
“My fault.” Newt rasped. Thomas reached down to help Newt up, but he didn’t let
go of Newt’s arm once they were both standing. Thomas opened his mouth, seeming
on the verge of saying something before a familiar shout interrupted him.
“SHUCK!” It was Minho’s voice, followed by the bone-rattling sound of metal
scratching against concrete. The sound came from two corridors away.
“Minho!” Newt screamed, rapidly backtracking towards their previous turn.
After only a few steps, Thomas shot past him, a blur of brown hair and lightly
tanned skin.  “Turn right up ahead!” Newt shouted, but Thomas didn’t seem to
need the instruction.
Wary of his leg giving out altogether, Newt rounded the bend slowly.
His heart sank.
The walls were moving, closing in with Thomas and Minho on the other side. He
was reminded of the Doors, but here there was no way Newt could get to the
other side without being flattened into a human pancake.
Both boys were both staring wide-eyed at something beyond, and Newt had the
horrible feeling he knew what it was.
Then, Minho turned his head and caught his gaze. The last thing Newt saw before
the walls sealed shut was Minho’s terrified face.
***** Chapter 2 *****
Chapter Notes
     Enjoy the chapter!
Newt pressed his ear against the wall, listening desperately for Minho and
Thomas. All he could make out the loud, groaning walls of the Maze as it
morphed. Hot tears rolled involuntarily down his cheeks, and the image of Minho
and Thomas getting mauled by a slimy, mechanical monster swam in his head. He
squeezed his eyelids tightly together and banged a fist on the wall.
“No!” Newt screamed into the darkness before collapsing against the concrete
surface. The sound came out a mutilated half-sob. He supposed that he should’ve
been used to death by now, considering the number of wooden grave markers
stamped in the Deadheads—all boys he either knew as long as he could remember
or who he had watched change from scared Newbies to fearless Gladers,
determined to find freedom.
Newt would soon be joining their ranks.
But the thought of what he’d be leaving behind branded his mind most strongly.
Ben’s excited yet determined face when Newt told him the Keepers chose him as a
Runner. Clint’s surprising gentleness when dealing with even trivial cuts and
bruises.  Gally’s talent for construction that revealed but also wasted his
amazing mathematical ability. They all worked their best, and they all deserved
Newt’s best.
Pulling himself up from his fetal position against the vine-covered wall was
not easy, mentally and physically.
Newt squinted down the dark corridor to his right, trying to remember the
differences between the section’s map from the day before and the map it would
turn into by sunrise. If he could predict the movements of the walls, Newt
mused, he would be slightly safer, slightly more able to find Minho and Thomas
if they miraculously survived.
The groan of moving walls sounded loudest in the morning, Newt recalled, so the
last of the Maze to move must be the parts closest to the Glade.
That’s right, he thought, recalling words Minho once said to him while they
were training, running the Maze together in the early days when they had no
clue what to expect. Stay rational. Keep on thinking, keep on moving.
Newt might have had the better memory, but Minho was always the faster thinker.
Newt decided it was pointless to try to get to where he had last seen Thomas
and Minho—if they were still living, they would have run as far away as
possible from there. Instead, Newt headed towards the thundering sound of
moving concrete, figuring that if there was any way of escaping a Griever, it
would be by squeezing past two converging walls.
Barely five minutes passed before he heard the dreaded sound of a Griever. It
rounded the corner so quickly that Newt had no time to hide.
“Shit!”
Fortunately for the Griever, Newt would be an easy meal. He ran as fast as his
legs would allow, but it wasn’t long before he could hear the monster gaining
on him, its wet, metallic noises sounding so close Newt couldn’t believe he was
still on his feet.
Then, Newt felt something hook around his waist, and all the air in his lungs
was squeezed out as he was abruptly whipped around in a ninety-degree turn. The
world spun rapidly before his eyes for a fraction of a second before his
momentum was stopped just as suddenly as he was grabbed.
As he recovered from the spinning sensation, Newt was distantly aware of the
Griever bowling past him, letting out mechanical roars without noticing that he
wasn’t running in front of it anymore.
“Ah—!” Newt’s instinctive cry was cut off by a large hand clamping over his
mouth. Against his back, he felt a firm, warm surface. The air that filled his
lungs at his a panicked inhale smelled wonderfully familiar.
He twisted around and buried himself in Minho’s chest, unable to stop shaking.
Minho’s arms, similarly firm, protective, and familiar, encircled Newt. He felt
breath against his ear, warm, slightly moist, and very reassuring.
“Gotcha, shank.” Minho whispered. Newt nodded jerkily and didn’t hold back the
relieved tears that streamed forth. For a few precious moments, Newt sobbed
into Minho’s shirt while the other boy rubbed slow, comforting circles into his
back.
Eventually, Minho pressed a kiss to Newt’s forehead and straightened up as far
as he could without dislodging the boy clinging to him. “We need to meet Thomas
up ahead. Do you need me to carry you?”
“I can walk,” Newt replied with more confidence he felt.
They were in a narrower passage of the Maze that branched off from what Minho
referred to as the “trunk.” Newt had once started an initiative to
mathematically denote the passages of the Maze, but the Runners quickly
realized that it added unnecessary strain to their memory.
His bad leg gave out the second Newt stepped out of Minho’s embrace, sending
him into an unsteady kneel. Now that the adrenaline rush was gone, it was clear
he’d underestimated the toll the unplanned exertion had taken on his body.
Minho caught him, and Newt winced.
Minho raised an eyebrow. “I’m gonna take that as a ‘yes.’”
“You’re a bloody heroic slinthead.” Newt muttered as Minho turned around so he
could jump on piggy-back.
“It’s a good shucking thing you go for bloody heroic slintheads, then.”
A smile was detectable in Minho’s voice through the exhaustion. As Minho hefted
him up, Newt decided that the other boy’s incredible stamina would never fail
to surprise.
Despite his relative bulk, Minho never developed the economical, controlled
soldier’s stride that the other Runners acquired—that Newt used to have—for
running the Maze daily. Minho’s every move, including his running style, was
free, open, and steady, how Newt imagined mountain lion would run. It took more
energy, but that was never an issue for Minho. His confident, almost predatory
way of movement was one of the many comforting, unchanging idiosyncrasies that
Newt loved endlessly about the boy. In retrospect, it was inevitable that sleep
rapidly drifted over him like a disobedient fog.
===============================================================================
When he woke up, the first thing Newt noticed was that he wasn’t on Minho’s
back anymore. The head in front of him had brown, slightly wispy hair,
completely different from the thick, black hair that Newt had run his hands
through so many times before. The torso between his thighs felt leaner, though
it possessed the same muscled firmness as Minho’s. Also, the body heat was
different. Unlike Minho, who was a space heater on legs, the boy—Tommy, he
thought groggily—who held him now emanated a muted warmth that barely crept
through his thin cotton shirt.
Newt struggled a little. “I’m awake. Let me down, Tommy.”
“Tommy, huh?” Came a scratchy, amused voice. When Thomas looked hesitant to put
Newt down, Minho shrugged. “Let that lazy shank down. We’re here, anyways.”
Suddenly, Newt felt an energizing rush of relief spread through his limbs.
Thomas and Minho were both alive.
“What’s ‘here’? And how’d you guys escape that bloody Griever?” He demanded.
Thomas let go of his legs, and Newt slid off his back, falling precariously to
his feet. Minho’s hand went to Newt’s shoulders, steadying him.
“We didn’t,” Minho grinned. “I’ll tell you the long version later, if there is
a ‘later.’”  Compared to before, Minho sounded a great deal more confident that
there would be one. Newt gave him a confused look, and Minho continued. “Your
Tommy here,” he gestured at Thomas, “killed a Griever.”
Newt whipped his head to Thomas, who of all things resembled a bashful grade-
schooler who just won a spelling bee. “I couldn’t have done it without Minho,”
Thomas said.
“Wow, Tommy,” Newt said, impressed. “Bloody hell, I didn’t think those god-
awful things could die.”
“We’ll give him a shucking medal for it later,” Minho went on. His dark eyes
were suddenly glinting with enthusiasm, tempered by a clever, quick-thinking
brilliance that Newt could never help but fall in love with. “Right now, we
have a plan. The last Grievers all ended up over the cliff, right Greenie? So,
no evidence, nothing to study. If we survive tonight, we might as well get a
clue about how to shucking get outta here...”
As plans went, Minho’s plan was as foul proof as they could get in the
circumstances, which wasn’t very foul proof at all. It all rested on the
assumption that Grievers couldn’t climb walls—at least not as fast as Thomas
could. And, there was another thing—
“Minho, even you can’t run that fast. We need another bloody decoy.” As Newt
finished speaking, Thomas nodded vigorously, looking like he had already gone
through this argument with the Keeper of the Runners. “And right now, my only
job is to keep watch for other Grievers—”
“No.” Minho interrupted. Thomas stopped nodding his head. “You’re too
important. If another group of Grievers come—”
“If you bloody don’t make it, we’re all shucked anyway,” Newt responded,
meeting Minho’s glare with his own. “Stop treating me like a buggin’ damsel in
distress.”
“Whoa, guys, we can just keep on surviving.” Thomas interjected, his brown eyes
wide as he looked between Newt and Minho. “We can just do this another night
with more people.”
“How many times do I have to tell you before you get it into your shuck head
that you don’t know how things work around here?” Minho turned the full force
of his frustration on Thomas. “No half-sane shank is gonna come out here at
night. I don’t god-damn plan on it again. Besides, there are rules for a
reason. This is our only chance.” Minho’s gaze met Newt’s again for a moment,
filled with gentle forgiveness and understanding. “‘Keep on surviving’ is not
an option.”
Newt’s shoulders felt heavy with another realization. If they survived, none of
the Gladers would look at him the same way again. Minho and Thomas would come
back heroes. Newt would lose all his credibility as a leader.
But if it meant even the merest chance of getting out of the Glade, Newt was
willing to risk everything he had.
As if he had read Newt’s mind through his gaze, Minho gave a brief nod of
grudging permission. When Newt shot him a sunny grin, he rolled his eyes.
“Okay, I get it, alright?” A voice called out from above. Newt turned his head
to see that Thomas was already twenty feet off the ground and rapidly climbing
higher. There was a grunt from above as Thomas yanked several thick pieces of
vine out of the wall. The set-up was quick and simple, and Minho and Thomas
were finished in minutes. Soon, all that was left to do was to wait for their
prey.
“I see one—three.” Thomas called down. “They’re moving slowly, but the first
one’ll reach us in a minute.”
Newt braced himself against the wall, his heart already pounding. His skin was
clammy, but his throat felt dry.
“Shouldn’t someone give a pep talk or something?” Minho asked. The comment was
so unexpected that Newt snorted.
“Go ahead.”
“Be careful.” Minho puffed out his chest, raising his chin as if he were
addressing the whole Glade instead of just Thomas and Newt. “Don’t die.”
“Great, we’re all bloody inspired.” Newt gave a short laugh. Except for rare
instances around Newt, Minho was allergic to sentimentality. Only Newt knew the
Runner well enough to see that Minho showed snark instead of fear, anger
instead of grief, and aggression instead of pain. For all the times Minho
forced him out of his depressive funks, Newt never called the other boy out on
hiding behind his shield of sarcasm.
As he turned his attention back to the plan, Newt resolved to fix that.
Assuming they survived the night.
“Okay, Newt, you ready?” Thomas called out. A pause, and then:  “Five, four,
three, two—go!”
Newt didn’t need the cue. The first Griever had rounded the corner, its
whirring body lighting up like a Christmas tree. It let out a screeching roar,
and Newt didn’t stay around long enough to see what it did next.
Newt sprinted like a bullet. Ignoring the pain in his leg while running had
begun to feel like second nature. Or perhaps it was the adrenaline again. His
lungs were on fire, his stomach ached with fear, but his mind was oddly
rational.
Seconds later, he reached the handle-thick piece of vine that Thomas had pulled
out slightly and tied off again. He could hear the noise of the Griever, now
almost caught up to him, only feet away. With both hands, Newt grasped the
plant at full speed and threw his body to the side, using centripetal force to
swing himself out of the way into another corridor as quickly as possible. If
looked like it did when Minho and Newt practiced it, the move was quick enough
and the turn was shadowed enough that it looked like Newt disappeared into thin
air.
It worked. The Griever slowed down like a confused bull, and its companions
crashed clumsily into it. The time the monstrous, gooey machines took to
straighten themselves back up was enough for Minho to get into position with a
second head start, a hundred feet away.
“Ugly shuckfaces! Hey, slintheads, over here!” The first Griever reared what
Newt supposed was its grotesque head, and the trio all went for Minho, who took
off.
Minho’s route was twice as long as Newt’s. But if anyone was capable of leading
a pack of Grievers through two Glade-lengths of Maze, it was the Keeper of the
Runners. A few seconds after the Grievers bowled past his hiding spot, Newt
crept out and took a left where Minho had taken a right. Minho was on the
shorter route to the cliff at the edge of the Maze, so by the time Newt got
there, the trap would already be sprung.
Then, he heard a whirring noise.
“Bloody hell!” He shouted, bolting in the opposite direction.  Newt lunged for
the first opportunity to make a feint-turn, but after bowling past, the pair of
Grievers seemed to realize what Newt had done and backtracked to him. His first
instinct was to turn back towards where he knew Minho and Thomas were, towards
the cliff.
But if he did, Newt would be bringing company. The plan couldn’t afford that.
They’d all get killed, even more outnumbered.
In the distance, Newt could see the rosy pink tendrils of dawn above the walls
of ivy. The reminder of how close he had come to surviving the night caused a
wet and sour feeling to prickle the corners of his eyes. He made several more
rapid turns, arms aching more each time. Was it possible to re-break a leg just
by using it too much? It certainly felt like it.
The knowledge that he was about to die felt different the second time. The
first time, Newt had looked down at the Glade from halfway up the wall and been
overcome by an immense sense of relief. The pink sky—it was a sunset, last
time—made it all the more surreal. It felt like escape was impending, that when
he jumped, he would fall up into the sky, away from the concrete prison.
Now, he ran towards the sunrise to the east, towards Glade, towards the Doors
that would open in a little more than an hour, towards where they had left
Alby—
Alby. Newt couldn’t endanger Alby. Or the rest of the Glade. If Alby was still
alive—
Newt listed to the side, preparing to make another turn, when he heard the
sound of moving concrete. The two walls in front of him were converging.
He knew exactly what to do.
Using a final burst of energy that he was certain he didn’t have, Newt
accelerated, making a beeline between the walls of concrete. From the high-
pitched roaring and the sound metal scraping against concrete, Newt knew the
Grievers were following closely. The line of light at the end of the converging
walls was narrowing, and Newt felt déjà vu as he turned sideways to make the
last stretch.
Newt gasped for air when he squeezed into the open. He turned around in time to
see the first Griever let out an ear-piercing groan as the back half of its
body was crushed between the walls. Its sharp, silvery claws and needles made
one last reach at Newt, who flinched violently away. Then, its flashing lights
sputtered out, and the Griever stopped moving with a final twitch.
Newt didn’t remember collapsing to the ground, but, abruptly, he was staring at
the sky, and his head was spinning. Or the sky was spinning, who bloody knew?
Either the walls had stopped moving, or the ringing in his ears was drowning
the sound out. He wondered where Minho was. That shank had no right to die, not
until he gave Newt another kiss or two. Or a million.
Newt tried to sit up, but his limbs felt like they had shut down.
Soft, merciful darkness washed over him.
***** Chapter 3 *****
Chapter Notes
     Hi guys! I’m really sorry for the huge gap of time since the last
     update. I’ve had the entire fic planned out and in rough draft form
     since February, but I got hit in the face by sucky Real Life
     obligations. This is the penultimate chapter. Enjoy!
Sunlight streamed into the room through an open window. Newt didn’t need to
open his eyes to know this because there was a warm patch of sunlight on the
covers above his stomach. The warmth was nice, but the presence of light
suggested that he needed to wake up soon or was already supposed to be awake,
and all Newt wanted to do was sleep.
He turned over and tried to curl into a ball, but something warm and solid was
in the way. Instinctively knowing it was Minho, Newt snuggled deeper into this
other, more welcome heat.
Then, Minho pulled away with a pained groan.
Newt slowly opened his eyes to see that the other boy had sat up. The blanket
that was covering both of them had slipped down to Minho’s waist, exposing his
toned, bare chest, and black hair stuck up in all directions. It was a sight
Newt would have taken his time with if Minho wasn’t clutching his heavily
bandaged left arm against his chest.
The unpleasant reminder of what happened jolted Newt out of his drowsy daze.
The Maze. Thomas, Alby, the Grievers, Minho’s plan—
Newt had barely propped himself up before he was crushed against Minho’s chest.
He felt kisses plastered to the top of his head rapidly, one after another,
before Minho elected to simply press his nose and lips into Newt’s hair. He
felt his soft inhale.
Though the last thing he wanted to do was complain about the treatment, Newt
needed to know what happened.
“Minho—”
“How do you feel?” Minho interrupted, voice uncharacteristically gentle and
careful. His arms, still draped around Newt, loosened enough so he could pull
away and make eye contact. The Runner sounded haunted, and Newt felt
protectiveness of the other boy wash through his veins.
He stretched carefully, analyzing the pain in his limbs. “I’m sore bloody
everywhere. Leg hurts. I ran into more Grievers,” Newt shivered at the memory,
“and led them away.” Unlike Minho, Newt wasn’t sporting any bandages. When
Minho nodded, his dark eyes filled with admiration and affection, Newt asked,
“What happened to your arm?”
“Shucked it up running away from those Grievers.” Minho glared at his bandaged
arm as if it personally offended him. At Newt’s horrified look, Minho added, “I
wasn’t stung, obviously.” He tapped his chest, which was very obviously not
pale and green-veined. “I had to do some fancy running and jumping to lose ’em.
If it weren’t for your Greenie, I’d be Griever chow right now. You were right
about trusting him, by the way. He’s the shucking reason we’re lyin’ here, and
not somewhere dead in the Maze.” Newt made a face at the image.
“How’s Alby?” Newt remembered where he’d last seen his oldest friend, a
shadowed, limp form hanging from the wall of the Maze. Minho’s face darkened.
“He’s alive.” Minho hesitated. “He’s in another room, bein’ watched over by
Clint. It seems like the longer a stung shank goes without the Serum, the
longer the Changing. The Medjacks think he’ll survive.” Minho’s worried face
belied the hopeful words. Between them hung the bleak understanding that the
boys who went through the Changing didn’t come out the same. Minho ran his hand
along Newt’s spine soothingly. “Are you tired?”
“How long have I been sleeping?” Newt’s mind swam with questions, with the
enormity of what happened. More than two years of nothing and suddenly they
knew how to kill Grievers. They survivedthe Maze.
“Not long enough. It’s almost dinner.” Minho frowned. “Are you hungry?” Before
Newt could respond, his stomach rumbled, and the Minho barked out a laugh. The
rough sound didn’t resemble Minho’s usual easy chuckles, but the tense air
between them lightened anyways.
“Bloody starving.” Newt responded unnecessarily.
While listening to Minho’s account of what happened in the Maze, Newt wolfed
down Frypan’s dinner of roast beef. He found it hard to ignore the stares
coming from the Gladers around him. When Newt looked up, he caught Gally’s
disapproving gaze. The Keeper of the Builders was sitting among the Builders,
arms crossed stiffly over his chest. Minho wrapped a warm arm around Newt’s
shoulders, and Newt didn’t miss the glare the two exchanged.
Thomas, who woke up earlier and got dinner sooner than Newt and Minho, sat with
Chuck, talking animatedly as other Gladers listened wide-eyed to his story. The
Greenie was currently miming climbing up the wall.
“I want to see Alby.” Newt declared, unable to suffer the boys’ staring any
longer. He imagined their gazes burning holes of suspicion and betrayal into
his skin.
“Later.” Minho said with certainty, like he had been expecting the demand. “You
need to rest for tomorrow.”
“What’s tomorrow?” Before the other boy could respond, the answer hit Newt and
elicited a groan. “Oh, the bloody Gathering.”
“The Admiral’s not conscious anyway.” Minho added gently, reaching up to
massage the nape of Newt’s neck. “He’s under anesthetics.”
“Alright, let’s go.” Newt frowned, wondering why Minho was treating him like a
fragile, skittish animal.
Despite the almost day-long nap, Newt’s limbs dripped with exhaustion, and his
mind spun with what had happened and what was to come. This grip of fearful
uncertainty reminded Newt painfully of two years ago, when the first boys
arrived in the Glade. No structure, nothing solid to rely on. Though he knew he
was still seated at the table, he felt momentarily like the ground was spinning
under him.
His body and lungs seized with unsteadiness. Fear dragged across his throat
like a noose, and Newt couldn’t stop his fingers and shoulders from spasming.
Panic clawed its way through his system.
Then, he felt the comforting touch of solid arms.
“Hey, it’s okay, shank. It’ll be okay.” For a few moments, Minho repeated the
words like a mantra, rubbing soothing circles into his back.  When the shaking
stopped, Minho released Newt and helped him stand without jostling his bad leg.
Newt winced. Bone throbbed like it was freshly broken.
As if reading his mind, Minho explained, “There’s no break, but you messed up
the muscles pretty bad, and they never healed right in the first place.” Trying
to ground his mind, Newt stared at the tired lines of the other boy’s face and
wondered how long Minho spent making sure he was okay that morning before
letting himself rest.
This was different from the beginning, Newt reminded himself as he swallowed
back a bitter tide of unease. They now had maps, trained, experienced Runners,
and Keepers. Newt had Minho. Warm lips on his forehead pulled Newt out of his
thoughts again, and light brown eyes met gentle dark ones. Newt pressed himself
into Minho’s embrace, feeling self-hatred bubble in his stomach.
He was supposed to be stronger than this.
===============================================================================
On Clint’s orders, Newt spent another night in the Homestead. After helping him
onto the cot, Minho sat on the ancient-looking stool in the corner, looking
hesitant. Newt, tired enough to pass out again, had asked, “Well, are you gonna
bloody sleep with me?”
Minho smirked teasingly, as if he hadn’t just spent an hour coaxing him to
relax. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” When Newt pouted, Minho laughed. “I
need to call a klunkin’ meeting with the Keepers. We need to figure out what to
do about…everything.”
At that, Newt’s stomach twisted. “Right.”
“Don’t worry.” Minho frowned. As if reading Newt’s thoughts, he continued, “You
realize you’re a hero, right? You killed a Griever single-handedly. There’s
nothing to worry about.”
“Go to your bloody meeting.” Newt grinned, suppressing doubt from his tone.
Minho ruffled his hair and planted a kiss on Newt’s forehead.
“I’ll be back!” Minho called over his shoulder as he left the room.
He curled towards the wall and fell quickly into a mercifully dreamless sleep.
To Newt’s disappointment, Minho wasn’t there when he woke up, though there was
a reassuring dip in the blanket that evidenced his presence. Newt had barely
sat up before Clint walked in carrying a pitcher of water.  The boy looked
surprised that Newt was awake. Newt answered a few questions about his leg
before Clint offered to get him food.
“I want to see Alby.” Newt demanded instead. Clint looked ready to argue, but
the desperation in Newt’s expression changed his mind.
“I’ll help you walk.” Clint answered, offering his shoulder.
Alby was kept in one of the deeper rooms in the Homestead, the one reserved for
boys going through the Changing.
It was worse than Newt expected. Alby’s eyes were closed, but he was tense
enough to be obviously awake. Dark blue and green veins formed a poisonous web
across Alby’s chest, neck, arms, and face, and if he wasn’t so securely bound,
Newt was sure his friend would be writhing, struggling to tear his own skin
off.
“Alby!” Newt rushed to the bed, putting his hand on Alby’s creased forehead.
The flesh was hot and sweaty.
“Newt?” Alby groaned, opening puffy, bloodshot eyes. “Is that you?”
“I’m here.” Newt said, touching Alby’s hands where they were bound at his
sides. “Stop talking if it hurts,” he begged.
“I want—” Alby sucked in a deep breath, “I want to talk to the Greenie.
Thomas.”
“Do you need anything?” Newt asked desperately, dismayed by the little sense
the request made. “I can get—”
“I want Thomas.” Alby interrupted, his voice cracking. “Newt, please.”
“Okay, okay.” Newt looked at Clint, who was leaning against the doorframe,
having not entered the room completely.
“He’s been asking for him since he got well enough to speak,” Clint replied.
With a pang of sympathy, Newt noticed how strained the Medjack looked. His eye
bags and slightly slouched figure made it believable that Clint had been the
one who spent a terrified, sleepless night in the Maze. Before Newt could
demand more details about what was wrong with Alby, the boy in question let out
a horrible shriek of pain.
Newt flinched, but Clint pushed off from the door calmly and plucked one of the
syringes from the collection on the large bedside table the Medjacks used as a
medicine cabinet.
Newt watched in quiet panic as Clint injected Alby with something that had an
almost immediate calming effect on his struggling limbs.
“It’s Thomas…” Alby muttered, voice hoarse. “I know who he is.”
“What?” Newt looked sharply into his reddened eyes, feeling a rush of vicarious
pain at the tortured expression on Alby’s face. However, the tenseness was
melting off rapidly, Alby’s eyelids drooping.
“I’m sorry…Newt…” Alby’s words trailed off with his consciousness. Newt felt
the sickly drip of suspicion at Thomas. The boy clearly wasn’t just a plain old
Greenie. He was curious and fearless. He seemed to belong in the Maze, the
opposite of Newt. And then there was that girl…
“Uh, Newt,” Clint sounded hesitant to interrupt the second-in-comand, who
continued to stare intensely at Alby. “They’re holding a Gathering for you
today.” Clint glanced out the window, judging the position of the sun. “Minho
should be here any minute. We should head back to the room.”
Newt suppressed a groan of dread and nodded. With Clint following him closely,
he limped his way back to the room he woke up in.
When they got there, the Keeper of the Runners was already sitting casually on
the cot.
“You ready?” Minho asked, pushing off the cot with an easy ripple of muscle
that made Newt jealous. His mind never failed to remind him that he would never
again be as physically fit, as graceful, as Minho. As Newt used to be.
When Newt nodded, Minho approached him. The Runner’s stance was casual and
businesslike, but Newt detected caution in the tenseness of Minho’s shoulders.
It was also hard to ignore the dark circles under Minho’s eyes.
Newt allowed Minho to slip behind him and gather his wrists together at the
small of his back. It was standard for rule-breakers in custody to be
transported like that, though somewhat unnecessary.  Even if a boy got free,
where would he run? No matter how Newt looked at it, they were all already
imprisoned.
“C’mon.” Minho dug a knuckle gently into Newt’s back, encouraging him to move.
His grip was loose to the point it didn’t feel like Newt was being restrained.
It was a short walk to the room where all the other Keepers were waiting.
Minho’s hand didn’t disappear from his until Newt was seated in the center
chair, surrounded by the semicircle of Keepers. Newt found that he missed
Minho’s touch, which always managed to reassure him without trying.
The Gathering always took place in that room, the largest in the Homestead.
Newt watched Minho walk casually to where Alby usually sat, in the middle chair
of the semicircle.
As the highest ranking Glader not incapacitated or on trial for breaking the
Number One Rule, the Keeper of the Runners was the de facto Leader. The two
chairs on either side of Minho were conspicuously empty. To the right was
Newt’s usual seat and to the left was Minho’s.
“Alright, shanks, settle down.” Minho called out sarcastically into silent
room. The words, usually Alby’s, normally had to be repeated several times at
the start of Gatherings before the boys stopped talking long enough to hold any
sort of civilized meeting. 
Newt was thankful when all eyes turned from him to Minho. The Keeper of the
Runners opened his mouth to speak, but was interrupted by Gally.
“Let it be known,” the Keeper of the Builders addressed the assembly, “Minho’s
biased. Whatever he says will be soft on Newt.”
Minho raised a dark, imperious eyebrow. “Gally,” he replied, voice filled with
blatant anger, “do we need another shucking Gathering to figure how soft on you
the Grievers will be?”
Newt winced inwardly. This was the opposite of the cool-headedness that the
Gathering needed. Not that Newt could have done better in Minho’s position.
Gally looked on the verge of violence. “Was that a threat?”
With a glare, Minho turned his head deliberately away from Gally. Minho cleared
his throat, and Newt was surprised at sudden change in Minho’s composure. Just
as quickly as it had appeared, the anger melted into a cool, composed control.
Minho leaned back in his chair.
“In place of our leader, sick in bed, and our second-in-command, on trial, I
declare this Gathering begun.” Minho announced, his eyes on Newt. “You all know
what we’re here for, so I’m not wastin’ breath explaining.”
He paused as if waiting for someone to disagree with him. No challenge came,
even from Gally.
“Right.” Minho continued curtly. “Zart, you’re first.”
“Well, um, I—” Zart hesitated, looking back and forth between Newt and Minho,
clearly uncomfortable being the center of attention. Newt found himself filled
with sympathy. The boy, most comfortable unobtrusively tending the Gardens,
didn’t deserve this pressure. “He broke the same rule as Thomas, right? Give
him the same punishment as Thomas. A night in the Slammer.”
Gally scoffed. “You’re joking, right? Newt’s second-in-freakin’-command. He
knows the rules way better than that shucking Greenie. It’s his job to not
break the rules.”
Newt winced at the truth of the words and followed everyone’s gaze to Minho.
“Did I say it was your turn, slinthead?” Minho arched an eyebrow at Gally
before addressing Zart. “Got it. Next?” The Keeper of the Runners then nodded
at Frypan, face unreadable. It was nothing like the thoughtful, open expression
Alby usually maintained, but it worked to keep order nonetheless.
Newt sat numbly as the rest of the Council voiced their recommendations, mostly
variations on time in the Slammer and days with only bread and water. Though he
hadn’t dared to form expectations of what the other Keepers would think, Newt
decided that they were being lenient. The biggest debate was over whether Newt
should resign from second-in-command, and to Newt’s surprise, only a minority
wanted him ousted.
Though his fate sat on the chopping board, Newt couldn’t help being enraptured
by the frank level-headedness with which Minho presided over the Gathering.
Though Newt had witnessed Minho give uniquely eloquent pep talks to the Runners
and work each trainee he took on to his fullest potential, Minho’s endless
reservoir of leadership skills would never cease to surprise.
The chair Minho sat on creaked quietly as the powerful body in it shifted,
turning subtly to face each speaker. He was forward without being
confrontational, listening without being passive. Of course, Minho did this all
while slipping in the occasional sarcastic remark or eye roll. Newt wondered
how Minho, without an iota of self-deprecation, managed to seem disdainful of
authority while being the authority.
Then, it was Gally’s turn.
The way the other Keepers watched the boy warily made Newt suspect something
unpredictable happened during Thomas’s sentencing.
“Go on, Gally.” Minho said tersely, quirking a corner of his mouth up. It
reminded Newt of a wolf licking its chops.
“I think,” Gally’s eyes made a meaningful sweep across the semicircle of
Keepers, “we can't trust Newt any more than we can trust Thomas. It doesn’t
matter what heroic klunk he did in the Maze. We can’t let a rule breaker be a
leader, especially not someone too weak to follow his own rules.”
Though he hadn’t expected anything different from Gally, Newt flinched. The
words felt like a physical blow to an old wound that never healed. Minho spared
Newt a concerned glance before flicking his gaze contemptuously back at Gally.
“If you have a point, you’d better make it soon, slinthead.”
“What I’m saying is,” Gally glared at Minho, “if we want to survive this, we
can’t be led by someone who doesn’t care if he survives.”
Minho went rigid at the same time Newt turned pale. The words diffused into the
air like poison into blood.
“What’s that s’posed to mean?” The de facto leader growled dangerously, his
suddenly murderous tone barely concealed. Beneath that, there was a tenor of
pain in Minho’s voice that shredded Newt’s heart.
“You know already.” Gally replied coldly. “This isn’t the first time Newt’s
gone and tried to—”
The Keeper of the Builders didn’t get to finish his sentence because Minho,
whose expression had transformed from icy to enraged almost instantly, abruptly
surged up from his seat. His chair hit the ground with a clang. The muscles and
veins on Minho’s forearm shifted and bulged as he clenched his long fingers
into a tight fist.
Feeling a swell of panic, Newt staggered up and forward. Ignoring the pain in
his leg, he lunged for Minho, trying to grab onto his arm, trying to pull him
back.
But Newt was too late.
A sharp crack sounded, and Gally was on the floor, spewing curses, blood
running like a river out of his nose.
***** Chapter 4 *****
Chapter Notes
     Last chapter! Sorry for the wait. This is where the explicit rating
     (AKA smut) comes in.
     Enjoy, and as always let me know what you think!
“His nose is broken,” Clint reported, and the news surprised no one. A few
Keepers winced in sympathy, but no one spoke.
Even if Newt wasn’t banned from speaking, he wouldn’t have been able to get a
word out. His throat felt choked up, plugged by a swirl of guilt and self-
loathing. Minho was still on his feet, and Newt could feel the other boy’s gaze
on him but refused to meet it. Instead, he studied the creases in his hands.
“What now?” Winston asked.
Another beat of silence.
“I think I’m not alone on this, but Gally deserved that.” Frypan answered
calmly. There were several noises of agreement.
“Doesn’t change the rules,” replied another Keeper. “‘Never hurt another
Glader.’ Gally’ll give everyone a huge load of klunk if Minho gets away with
this.”
“Like hell I’m saying sorry.” Minho, still standing from his outburst, sounded
like he was barely reining his anger.
“Okay, well I recommend Minho gets twenty-four hours in the Slammer, effective
immediately,” Frypan announced. “No reason not to treat this like any other
fight.”
“Yeah, and we can decide Newt’s punishment when Minho gets out,” Zart added,
obviously uncomfortable with the tension. The other Keepers all voiced their
assent, and Newt sympathized with their eagerness to mend the harmony, to make
the Glade whole again.  A cage was no place for conflict.
Newt felt like throwing up.
It must have shown in his expression, because he noticed that everyone in the
room was looking at him like he was a powder keg.
“You okay, Newt?” Winston asked. Newt stood, ignoring the nausea rolling in his
stomach.
“The Gathering’s bloody over, right? I…I’m gonna leave now.” He fled through
the door like a startled deer, brushing past Clint.
He had nearly reached the door to the bedroom when he heard Minho call his
name.
“We need to talk about this.” Minho caught the door Newt attempted to slam.
They engaged in a brief tug of war with the door before Newt, sensing
inevitable defeat, let go. He spun on his heel and headed towards the cot.
Minho stumbled backwards at the abrupt lack of resistance but righted himself
with enviable agility.
“You’re not brushing this off, shank,” Minho said, voice tight with tension.
The door clicked closed after the other boy stepped inside, giving them a
fragile privacy.
“There’s nothin’ to brush off,” Newt insisted. He sat heavily on the cot and
immediately regretted it when the springy mattress forced him into an
embarrassing bounce, jolting his leg.
“Seriously expect me to believe that?” The medical cot was elevated enough so
that Minho standing was only a little higher than eye-level with Newt.
“Leave me alone.” Newt braced his hands on the firm flesh of Minho’s shoulders.
Light brown eyes met dark ones, and Minho didn’t move away. He didn’t move any
closer, either, and the familiarity of Minho’s caution made Newt’s chest go
cold. He was tired of being coddled by Minho, by Alby, by Clint, by the entire
Glade. Except for Gally…Gally wasn’t afraid of the truth.
“Why did you follow Thomas into the Maze?”
It seemed that Minho was finally getting tired of Newt’s bullshit.
“You jealous?” Newt wanted to make Minho angry. He wanted Minho to fight back
against him instead of absorbing his blows. Instead of rising to the jab, Minho
watched Newt curiously.
“Should I be worried about him?” The corner of Minho’s mouth twitched up, but
the seriousness in his eyes made it clear the question wasn’t just about
whether the Greenie was romantic competition.
“Tommy’s innocent as the rest of us,” Newt responded hotly, but Alby’s voice
echoed in his mind. It’s Thomas…I know who he is. “He doesn’t remember
anything.”
“If you trust him, shank, I do too.” Minho replied matter-of-factly. The real
meaning of the words was clear on Minho's face: I don’t want to argue with you.
The reversal of roles, of Minho being the placating one instead of Newt, did
nothing to mitigate the feeling in his head that the world was tilting.
“Gally doesn’t think so,” Newt argued, trying to kindle the spark of
disagreement.
“That's Gally’s problem.” Minho’s expression tightened at the mention of the
boy’s name. Then, he raised an eyebrow, and Newt was unexpectedly comforted by
the familiar snarkiness that colored his tone. “You’re awfully desperate to
make this about that Greenie.”
“You're awfully certain that this isn't about him,” Newt retorted.
“It isn't. At least not entirely.”
“What the bloody hell is that supposed to mean?” Newt's hands tightened on
Minho’s shoulders, blunt nails digging like chisels into the blue cloth of his
shirt.
“Thomas’s no messiah.” Minho replied, stepping forward. The words hung in the
air.
Newt’s grip slackened in surprised confusion. “What?”
Minho took the opportunity to pry Newt’s hands away from his shoulders and
gently hold them in his own. “You’ve been waiting for him since you climbed out
of the goddamned Box,” he explained, and Newt's lungs tightened. “Someone to
change everything. You want a klunk-for-brains hero to blaze through the Maze
and lead us all to freedom.”
Denial clogged Newt’s throat but couldn’t make its way out. It was hilariously
unfair how easily the words pierced deep. Then again, Minho always knew Newt
best.
“When’d you die and reincarnate into a buggin’ shrink?” Out of the tumultuous
jumble swirling in Newt’s mind, that was the sentence that made it out.
Minho barked out a laugh. The harshness of the sound belied the gentleness with
which his hands moved to stroke across Newt’s jawline. Minho leaned forward to
press a kiss to Newt’s forehead. He trailed to the side until his lips were at
Newt’s temple.
The comforting touch didn’t contain a hint of intent. Nonetheless, Newt felt a
tingle of skittishness run through his nerves.
“Thomas’s not special.” Minho continued, and the words came out muffled against
Newt's skin. When Newt opened his mouth to point out that Thomas was the reason
they were both alive, Minho brushed the calloused pad of his long finger
against Newt's lips. “Even if he is, that doesn’t mean you’re expendable. It’s
not about just one person…”
Newt felt like he was standing helplessly at shore and watching a war boat
approach from the horizon, intent on tearing him apart. He had never thought
about it that way, Minho’s words managed to hit cords of truth that he didn’t
know existed.
“You can’t give up, Newt.”
A swell of panic flooded his throat. He needed to get Minho off course.
“For my sake, please. Tell me what’s wrong…”
So Newt parted his lips and sucked Minho’s finger into his mouth before the
other boy could pull away. Simultaneously, he returned his hands to Minho’s
shoulders and hauled him forward.
Minho yelped and toppled towards Newt, who parted his knees to accommodate the
new closeness. Their chests crashed together before Minho instinctively braced
a long arm against the mattress and caught himself. His face was inches away.
Newt hooked his ankles around the backs of Minho’s legs to prevent him backing
up.
“Newt,” Minho sighed, his voice amused yet wary. Newt didn’t miss the new husky
note of lust. “Not a good time.”
“It’s been a while,” Newt said around the finger in his mouth, his tongue
moving against the prominent knuckles. Newt swallowed the feeling of
foolishness down and ground his body forward, relishing in Minho’s groan.
“Considering, ah, we spent most of the past forty-eight hours either runnin’
for our lives or sleeping our brains out, I wouldn’t call this urgent.”
Newt sacrificed Minho’s finger to tug back his collar and press an open-mouthed
kiss to his neck.
“Okay, stop, slinthead,” Minho pushed Newt back and gripped his chin, forcing
eye contact. The haze of lust barely diminished the sharpness of Minho’s gaze.
“Don’t make me drag it out of you, please? For my sake, talk to me, and then
we’ll have that overdue, mind-blowing sex.”
“I don’t want to bloody kill myself anymore, if that’s what you want me to
say.” Newt spat, the beginnings of arousal rapidly replaced by anger. Minho
didn’t flinch, didn’t back down.
“Then, what are you trying to prove? Everyone trusts you as a leader, but
you’re determined to let them down.”
Newt’s expression twisted in pain. “I’m not—” he felt the promise of tears
prickle at the backs of his eyes. “Why can’t you believe I just didn’t want to
lose you?”
“I believe that,” Minho replied, his dark eyes burning with hurt. “But the fact
that I wasn’t enough to make you stay with me, to stop you the first time,
gives me the feelin’ this isn’t just about me.”
“Damn it, Minho,” Newt felt something pulled taut snap inside him, and the dam
of his composure vaporized. He squeezed his eyes shut and felt hot tears spill
across his cheeks like blood from an open wound. Guilt, old and unburied,
seared through his throat.
“Shh, Newt,” Minho pulled Newt against his chest, and Newt was enveloped in his
warm, earthy scent. His thumb caught the salty liquid. Lips touched Newt’s
temple and then his cheek softly. “It’s okay. I don’t care if it’s not all
about me. I just need to know what it is, so I can make sure it never shucking
bothers you again.”
Newt pressed his face into the juncture of Minho’s neck and shoulder and didn’t
answer for a long moment.
Minho’s hands began massaging circles into his back again.
“I’m weak,” Newt finally muttered into the crease of where fabric ended and
skin began. “They look up to me, but they don’t see me.”
“Ever heard of speaking in tongues?” Minho arched an eyebrow when Newt didn’t
continue. “Tell me what they don’t see, shank.”
“That I’m weak,” Newt repeated. “They expect me to step up and become Leader if
anything happens to Alby.”
“I’m failin’ to understand how the possibility of screwing up at leadership is
worse than definitelygetting eaten by Grievers.” Minho replied drily.
“That’s why I’m weak.” Newt leaned back to look into Minho’s eyes. “And you’re
strong. We’re shuckin’ different.”
Newt watched as something shifted in the other boy’s eyes. It was as quick as a
light switch but infinitely more subtle. An understanding. Then, a change in
strategy.
“Newt,” Minho growled, grabbing Newt’s shoulders tightly. He gave him a shake,
and Newt clutched Minho’s elbows as he crashed forward. “You’re not weak.” The
rough movement brought their groins together and elicited a half-groan, half-
whimper from Newt. “You’re god-damn blind.” Minho brought his mouth to where
part of Newt’s chest was bared by his sienna colored tank top and sucked, his
mouth wicked and unrelenting.
“Hell,” Newt gasped at the sudden aggression. Minho’s hands wandered down,
ghosting over his ribs and settling on his hips.
“I don’t understand why you have klunk for self-esteem, but I won’t let you
insult my taste. There’s a reason everyone likes you, and it’s not just ’cause
you’re pretty.”
“Wait, Minho,” Newt groaned, glancing at the door warily. “The Keepers—”
“They gave me ’til dinner to deal with you, shank.”
Minho abruptly hooked his hands under Newt’s thighs and lifted him from the
cot. The world tilted, and Newt felt the sheet-covered mattress behind him as
he was laid on his back. Minho climbed forward like a leopard and settled
between Newt’s legs.
Newt grabbed Minho’s collar and pulled him into a searing kiss. When the lips
above his parted, Newt licked into his mouth, relishing in the taste and
slickness of their tongues together. It was uniquely Minho and nothing
else. Too little else, Newt noticed. He pulled back.
“Have you eaten today?”
“I swear to God, Newt,” Minho groaned, grinding his hips forward in
retaliation. “You have worse timing than Thomas, and that shank can’t tell a
punchline for his life.”
“Minho.” Newt leveled him with a stern look and propped himself on his elbows
to prevent being pressed farther into the bed. Minho just dipped his head down
and kissed Newt on the shoulder.
“Food might’ve slipped my mind,” Minho mumbled into his skin. Then, he sunk his
teeth gently into the juncture of Newt’s shoulder before replacing the bite
with a lick. “I’d rather have you.”
Newt’s hands flew to grasp the back of Minho’s neck.
“Hell…”
Minho undid a button and a zipper before giving his Newt’s hipbone a few
impatient taps with his thumb. Newt lifted his hips so his pants could be
tugged off and tossed to the side. His shirt followed suit quickly.
Minho caught Newt’s hands into his and placed them at his collar. Newt obeyed
the wordless command and began to unbutton the other boy’s shirt, pressing his
fingers into Minho’s bare chest as they traveled down. The warm, taut chest
shivered under his fingers.
“Hurry up, shank…” In an elegant movement, Minho shrugged off his shirt and
tugged Newt’s hand to the crotch of his pants.
Powerful abdominal muscles rippled as he helped Minho strip. Newt felt
mesmerized, like a mouse caught in the glare of a snake.
His focus was promptly vaporized as Minho’s hand wandered between his legs.
Long, calloused fingers, slicked with something wet and slippery, wrapped
around his cock. Newt tilted his head back against the barrage of pleasure that
flooded up his spine.
“You look so beautiful like this,” Minho informed him before meticulously
sucking and kissing the line of Newt’s throat.
“Wha…”
“Like the sun,” Minho added. With the hand not preoccupied with Newt’s cock, he
stroked his fingers through golden hair. “Everyone looks up to you because they
can’t shucking live without you.”
“That’s…poetic,” Newt answered disbelievingly.
Minho snorted and swiped the calloused pad of his thumb over the head of the
hardened flesh. Pleasure wiped through Newt’s mind.
“Yes, Minho, please…” The other boy’s hand skated down the sensitive pillar of
flesh, past his balls and behind—
“You better fucking remember, Newt,” Minho thrust a long finger inside his hole
without warning. “You’re my sun, and wherever you go, I will follow.”
“Minho—” Newt whimpered when the finger curled and hit the right place
effortlessly. His thighs trembled, and he felt a slight burn as he
automatically clenched down.
Newt moved his hips, wordlessly encouraging Minho to hurry up and move. The
motion caused their bodies to ripple together, and the boy above him gasped.
Minho twisted another finger into him, and pleasure and pain spread like fire
from the base of his spine.
“More…lube…”                                     
The Runner’s brows scrunched up in concern, and Newt groaned at the sudden
disappearance of the fingers. Minho fumbled behind him for the tube of lotion.
He brushed his finger gently across Newt’s entrance. “Jeez, you’re all pink and
swollen down there…”
“Shut your hole.”
“Open yours.” Minho smirked and skillfully dodged the hand that came up to
smack him. “It really has been a while, huh?”
This time, he entered Newt with more care. Newt tried to relax around the
soreness. “Not since a week after Chuck got outta the box.”
With a groan, Minho dropped his head, pressing his face indiscriminately
against Newt’s neck. “Ugh, speaking of mood-killers, don’t mention a Greenie’s
name ever again while I’m fingering you.”
Newt let out a raspy laugh, feeling the inexplicable tenseness in his body go
away. All pain gave way to soft warmth.
“That’s it, shank…” Minho eased a third digit in and hummed in approval.
“Okay,” Newt gasped after a few moments of writhing in pleasure. “I’m ready.”
“Right…” Minho pulled out his fingers, slicked himself, and braced his hands on
Newt’s hips. He pressed a line of distracting kisses along Newt’s cheek and
down to his neck.
Newt felt a blunt pressure at his entrance, thicker than the fingers gripping
him. A moan escaped when Minho pushed inside.
It was in moments like this that even Newt was surprised by how tender and
patient Minho could be. The boy above him feathered kisses along his arched
neck as he pressed in slowly. Newt tensed around the intrusion, but the pain
was tolerable.
Soreness soon melted away into pleasure, hot and blissful.
As the thrusts sped up, Newt clung to Minho like the boy above him was a piece
of driftwood and he was stuck in a stormy sea.
Newt’s body jerked as he was fucked into the bed. His mind felt jumbled, torn
between the hot, pleasurable sensation of Minho’s mouth on his neck, his sun-
kissed, muscled stomach against his, and the hard, pulsing flesh plunging deep
inside him.
When Newt climaxed, his vision whited out briefly. Liquid heat filled him and
spread until it reached the tips of his fingers and toes.
Minho continued to piston his hips forward into Newt for a few moments before
he let out a groan of pleasure that made Newt whimper. A final, rough thrust,
and he was coming inside him
When Minho pulled out, there was an uncomfortable slickness between his thighs,
but he felt too drowsy to care.
“I love you,” Minho hummed into Newt’s hair, pulling him against his warm,
solid chest.
“I love you too…”
He fell into a soft, dreamless sleep.
===============================================================================
“You two really like each other, don’t you?” Thomas asked, taking a seat next
to Newt on the dirt floor. They both leaned against the wall of the Slammer as
they watched Minho do his morning stretches and pull on his Runner harness.
Well, Newt was looking at Minho. Thomas watched Newt.
Minho paused after he finished buckling up his harness to glance in their
direction, his hands coming to a rest tugging the straps against his chest.
“Yeah,” Newt said, smiling when Minho gave them a wave.
“It must be nice.” Thomas replied, sounding wistful. Newt frowned. His usual
policy was to stay out of other boys’ business unless there was some kind of
emergency, but the unreadable expression Thomas wore drew the next words out of
his mouth:
“What’s bitin’ ya, Tommy?”
“They’ve got all the power.” Thomas replied, and Newt’s eyes widened in
surprise at the confusing statement.
“Who?”
“The Creators.” Thomas gestured vaguely around, and Newt swept his gaze across
the unassailable walls surrounding them, blocking out the horizon.
“Bloody unfortunate for us,” Newt replied carefully, feeling the old, bitter
demon of hopelessness clawing at the back of his mind.
“But they’re not as strong as us.” Thomas declared with confidence.
“How’s that, shank?”
“They’re just a bunch of employees. We’re…us. The way you and Minho look at
each other…the way everyone here works together and understands each other.
There’s nothing that can stop us if we stick together.”
There was a moment of silence between them during which Newt struggled
desperately to dislodge the clot of emotion that suddenly appeared in his
throat.
“Remind me to let you do the motivational speaking instead of Minho,” Newt
finally replied, though he felt and intoned no sarcasm.
Somehow Newt believed him. Against all odds, they’d killed a Griever. They
would escape from the Maze and its Creators, and Minho would finally find the
peace and happiness he deserved.
All the boys in the Glade could get the life Newt had always been too weak to
find for them.
As long as they followed each other.
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